Bushy

“Fly, Ned, fly!” cried the little girl, and the horse stretched his long limbs to cover more ground. They turned the bend and on seeing the old man, the little girl reined up the horse so sharply that she was nearly thrown over his head.

“Great goodness! I most went off that time, didn’t I?” she panted. “What are you standing in the middle of the road for, anyway, Tom? And why do you look so queer? Oh, dear, are you sick? Here, can you hold the bridle? I’ll get you a drink from the brook in a jiffy.”

Before he could reply she was beside him winding the rope round his hand, saying: “Hold him tight, he is skittish, you know.” She snatched off her buckskin cap and in less than a minute brought it back full of clear, cold water.

“Wall, I’ll swaller it since you’ve gone and got it; but I don’t want water; nothin’s the matter with me.” He drank from the cap while Bushy looked on approvingly. “I jes’ thought Ned was runnin’ away, and I’d try and stop him as he turned this corner,” said Tom, striking her cap on his knee, three or four times after he had taken the drink from it.

“Wall, you’ve no business ridin’ like that, anyway; I’m sure as sartin we’ll never raise you, never! And, golly, ’tain’t cause there ain’t enough of us to look after you, but you are so tomfoolery foolish.”

“Then, you were not sick, after all,” said Bushy, “and I’ve lost my bet and ducked my cap, and—give it to me, you wicked old man. You will get no more drink from me—so there!” She snatched her cap and sent such a ripple of laughter from her cherry-red lips that the mountains on all sides lovingly echoed it.

“What was your bet, Bushy?”

“Oh, that I could run from the camp to the mines in five minutes if the Indians were after me.” She sprinkled him well with what water she could shake from the cap; and then with a jerk drew it down tight on her tangled head.

With a jolly little laugh, she sang “hitchity, hatchet, my little red jacket, and up I go,” and, mounting the pony with one leap, turned her quaint, oldish face toward Tom and motioned for him to hand her the rope bridle.

“Who’d you bet with?” he asked, tying an extra knot in the old rope before handing it to her.

“Why, with myself, of course, you funny old fellow! I couldn’t bet with the rats, could I? And what else is there in the shanty when everybody is at the mine? even Rover is off hunting with padre.”

“You don’t say, Bushy, that the Padre is still out? That’s bad. Shanks brought news from the blacksmith’s that the Indians in the reservation are ugly!”

Bushy’s face seemed to grow older; the smile disappeared, the lips became compressed, and her hands grasped more tightly the rope that made Ned her prisoner.

“And Padre went up Eureka Gulch, didn’t he, Tom?”

“That’s so, but then, chick, don’t fret; he is good enough for a dozen redskins any day. You might, though, as long as you are on Ned, go to the mine and talk with Shanks about it. I’ll bet you that mountain sheep’s head I brought in last week that you will find the Padre with me when you get back.” She was already on her way and had time only to call out, “All right!” as she disappeared in the ravine.

“I’ve lost the sheep’s head, sure as sartin,” mumbled the old man, stooping for his tools. “The padre has heard about the Indians and is layin’ low to come in under cover of dark. He won’t run a risk—for the chick’s sake. Poor chicken without any mother!”

He swung the heavy pick and shovel on his shoulder, tucked a chunk of tobacco in his left cheek, then shambled off, shaking his head and grumbling.

“Halloa!” shouted Shanks, as Bushy approached the mine. “You always come in the nick of time. Here is Rover with a note from the Padre pinned on his shaggy coat, saying”——

“Oh, please, Shanks, let me read it!” and not waiting for him to hand her the paper, she leaned over, deftly slipped it out of his fingers, and read:

“All right, I’ll go. Show it to Tom,” said Bushy, returning the note. “Could you strap your tool-bag on Ned for me?” She dismounted and they both tried to make a saddle out of the bag. “What’s the matter? Won’t it go round?”

“But, Bushy, I really think that you had better let me go. I heard something to-day about”——

“Oh, yes; I know. The Indians. Tom told me. But don’t you see if there should be any trouble, father and I could both ride Ned, and if you go, both being so big, one of you would be left, sure.”

“That’s all true, little wise-head. Off with you then. Wait! Let me fix you up with my belt and revolver. I don’t suppose there’s an Indian within fifteen miles of here, but if you see one, and he even looks cross-eyed at you, pop him over.”

Lightly jumping on Ned, riding astride—as she always did when on a dangerous mission—and pulling down her cap, she called: “Rover! here, Rover; I want you. Good-by, Shanks. We are off for the Padre!” Rover set up a barking loud and joyous. Ned stood on his hind legs for a moment; then the three went flying up Stone Path to render greater assistance than any of them thought.

Bushy had gone about three miles and had arrived at the point where the path she had been following led into the main road at right angles, when she noticed that Rover began to show great uneasiness, and Ned snorted and tossed his head as he always did when he scented danger. She drew her rein, slipped quickly down, threw herself at full length on the ground, and, placing her ear close to the sod, listened.

“By jiminy!” she exclaimed, “some one is coming in both directions.” Again she listened. “Ah! one horse limps; that must be Spott. Now who can be coming from the other direction? A redskin, I’ll bet my head!” She jumped up quickly; and quietly led Ned behind a huge bowlder and wound the bridle around a snag that grew in a crevice. “Poor Ned,” she said, “how you do tremble! You are just as scared of the Indians as I am.” She snapped her fingers at Rover, who whined and crouched at her feet. Then she drew and cocked her revolver.

“I wonder if I have done the right thing in hiding here,” thought Bushy. “Will they meet near here or pass beyond. Good gracious, how fast that horse is coming! Will father never get here! It is an Indian! Whizeration!” she exclaimed, as she ducked behind the bowlder. A Navajo rode into sight, bristling all over with weapons. He had two sets of bows and arrows, one revolver, two bowie-knives, and a tomahawk. He bent over and looked anxiously ahead, as if expecting to meet some one.

“Oh, if he looks behind we are dead, that’s sure!” thought Bushy.

Just then Spott limped into sight. Bushy saw at a glance that her father was not prepared for the Indian. She reeled, and you would have felt certain she was going to fall; but, clutching her revolver, her face taking on that same queer, old expression, she glided out, where she could take good aim at the Indian.

Mr. Sukolt, expecting Bushy, and knowing nothing of the Indian trouble had not thought it strange to hear a horse coming. At the sight of the Indian he jerked Spott sideways, just in time to escape an arrow. At the same moment came a report from Bushy’s revolver. The Indian reeled and fell head first off the pony, but, like a rubber ball, was up with a bound, and, giving a blood-curdling yell, raised his tomahawk and sprang at Bushy. She fired again, but missed him—the shot taking effect in the breast of poor Spott, who had wheeled herself in direct line of the firing.

Bushy saw Spott fall, and, fearing that her father was hurt, she screamed, “Padre, Padre! what have I done?” Then she was thrown flat on the ground, face downward, by Rover, who, till then, had not left her heels. At her cry, he sprang upon her back, over her head, and clinched his big white teeth in the throat of the Indian, just as the savage was about to strike Bushy’s head with his tomahawk. The struggle between man and beast lasted only a second, for the butt of Mr. Sukolt’s revolver, which he brought down with all his force on the skull of the redskin, would have knocked the latter senseless had not the bullet fired by Bushy already done its work. The fellow fell dead with Rover still clinging to his throat.

“Off with you, Rover, you noble fellow,” called Mr. Sukolt. “He is dead—dead as a door-nail.” Then, turning to Bushy, who had scrambled to her feet, he took her in his arms, saying: “Brave little girl, this isn’t the first time you have saved me with that revolver of yours.”

“Not mine this time, but Shanks’s, and it was so heavy, and I was so afraid of shooting you that I missed my second fire. Oh, come away! Oh, come back! Shanks told me of the Indians around the blacksmith’s and there may be more with this one.” She trembled like a leaf, and her face was ashen white.

“Look, Padre, the Indian pony’s lariat is entangled about Spott’s body. If you can catch him we can yet take home the bear.”

“I will catch him, for the boys at camp are famishing for fresh meat,” said Mr. Sukolt, “though we run a little risk by the delay.”

“We will both ride Ned and I will lead this pony with his load of meat,” remarked Mr. Sukolt, as he came up with the frightened animal.

“Yes, let’s hurry; I’m so frightened. Ugh! The horrid Indian, don’t touch him, Padre!” she screamed. But Mr. Sukolt thought best to drag the body behind the bowlder and away from the main road. With one regretful look at Spott, lying dead in the path, they rode away—Bushy and her father on Ned; Bushy guiding the horse, while the Indian pony, with the bear, was led by Mr. Sukolt.

They reached camp in time for Tom to cook some of the bear for the Thanksgiving dinner. Six miners, Tom, and Shanks, the father and Bushy, all sat around the wooden table and ate none the less merrily for the day’s strange adventures.